Moonshine Glories
by Hoshi-tachi
Summary: Now that the Dark Lord has returned, the Order of the Phoenix must call in outside help to train their boy savior. Enter one officer used to dealing with the weird, Colonel Jack O'Neill...
1. Prologue

_Title:_ Moonshine Glories  
_Author:_ Hoshi-tachi

* * *

"_War is at best barbarism… Its glory is all moonshine… War is hell."  
_**-Gen. William T. Sherman**

* * *

Blake hadn't been aware that the office was getting dark. He'd been working late, as usual. The only notice he'd given to the steadily dimming light had been to switch on his table lamp, but there'd been no conscious thought involved. The irritating lack of information regarding the American pilot shot down the day before was holding too much of his attention.

Ordinarily Captain O'Grady's disappearance wouldn't have been of any concern to him, but the SAS had a team in the area, and if the Bosnians were all stirred up over searching for the downed pilot, they could possibly be compromised. Bosnia was enough of a mess as it was, without tossing proof of British interference into the mix.

Unfortunately, though, Blake couldn't see any way to deal with it, other than to warn the team to keep their heads down, which had already been done. Deploying any other troops was out of the question; insertions were tricky enough even when the area in question wasn't under high alert. Not to mention getting a team there in time to do any good would be extremely difficult.

Those were the thoughts consuming his attention, and the reason General Edmund Blake paid no attention to the growing darkness. At least, not until he heard a sound that shouldn't have been there in the shadows, but was nevertheless horribly familiar: the sound of a peg leg striking his hardwood floor.

He looked up just in time to see a man step into view. The intruder was a study in just what injustices could be done to the human body. Scars seemed to cover every inch of the skin on his face; a chunk was missing from his nose and the edges of the space were ragged, as though it had been torn right out. One scar in particular stood out from the rest, a vividly red diagonal scar across his right eye. The eye itself bulged, and moved its intensely blue pupil restlessly around the room. He wore a dark robe, and a wooden peg peeked out from beneath its edge.

"You," the general stated numbly, unable to look away from the spinning eye.

The man smiled grimly, twisting his features into new heights of horror. "Me."

"What do you want?" It had been years since they'd last met, not since Blake had still been a colonel serving under the previous Colonel of the Regiment. He'd shown up out of the blue one night and told them there was a whacked-in-the-head nut job out to take over Great Britain, and then the world. If he was here again… "Don't tell me there's another lunatic?"

"Same one, actually." He smiled again. "Got more lives than a cat, he does, and he's harder to kill than a cockroach."

Blake blanched. "Wonderful." He closed his eyes, trying not to remember what had happened the last time. Buildings destroyed, men and their families slaughtered, and Her Majesty's Government unable to do anything about it but cover it up so that nobody panicked. "I don't suppose you have any plans for stopping him?"

"Not much of one, but all we've got. That's why I'm here. We need your help."

The general opened his eyes, surprised. "What could you possibly need my help for? As I recall, you once said that me and my kind were defenseless against you and yours."

Again, the grim smile. "I was young and foolish then. Learned a few things since, seen a bit of what you people can do."

Blake pondered that. "What, exactly, do you need from us? Troops? I don't know how well we would do in a pitched battle."

The man shook his head. "No. What we need from you is a man, just one. He needs to be the best, and has to be able to think outside the box, or he's useless to us. Can't have too high a public profile, since he'll have to apparently disappear for months without garnering attention."

Blake frowned. "I… see. Only one man?" He received a nod. "And just what will he be doing, pray tell?"

His guest let out a bitter, splintered laugh. "Why, he'll be training our last hope, that's all." He pulled a flask from a pocket and drank from it, before coughing harshly and wiped his hand over his mouth. "I hope you can find someone, I really do," he said. "We don't have much going for us as it is. The Ministry's got its head up its arse, and control of the newspapers, so we're on our own this time. I don't care where you pull our boy from, or what he's done, but we need all the help we can get."

Blake tented his hands before him, lost in thought. There weren't many under his command who fit that description that weren't already on missions vital to England's security. Pulling any one of them off their assignments could ignite a powder keg potentially as bad as this one. He (or she, the general added quickly) would have to come from outside the SAS, then. Offhand, he could think of no one suitable in the Special Boat Service, either, though he'd have to coordinate with Admiral Lawley to make sure.

A thought popped into his mind, a memory of a briefing a few months ago that had been every bit as earth-shattering as his first meeting with the man before him. If it didn't matter where the soldier came from, then all the resources of their allies were possibilities, as well. And from what he understood, the Colonel's unit had just been disbanded, and the Colonel himself was planning on going back into retirement.

Blake felt a bit of hope. He'd have to arrange things with the Foreign Secretary, of course, and convincing the American government and the man himself would be tricky, but if it could be done, then he couldn't think of a better man for the job.

"I have a candidate in mind, an American," he told his visitor. The man simply grunted. "I'll see what I can do."

"You do that." He took another swig from the flask, and for the first time Blake noticed just what state he was in.

"Bloody hell, what happened to you?" he asked, taking in the less-disturbing, but bloodshot eye and the gaunt face. "You look like you were run over by a lorry!"

Alastor Moody grunted again. "Don't want to talk about it. Just get our boy so we all live to see next year. And watch your back!" With that, he turn and thumped back into the shadows.

There was a quiet, barely noticeable _pop_, and then General Blake was alone in his office once again. He took a minute to gather his thoughts, and then picked up his phone. "Secretary Fulke," he told the operator, and then waited as his call was directed.

"Working late again, I see," he said as the other end was picked up. "Yes, I as well. No rest for the wicked. Speaking of which, I need you to do me a favor. I need you to contact the Americans about a sensitive matter… Yes, that kind of sensitive… You may need to go as high as the President. As for what it's about…

"Pull all the files you have on a Colonel Jonathan 'Jack' O'Neill, U.S. Air Force, currently assigned to the Cheyenne Mountain Operations Center…"

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A/N: Erm. In my defense for starting another one, I'm actually getting some work done on _Tomb of Memory_ and _Wednesday's Children_. And I don't own Harry Potter or Stargate: SG-1, which I am bringing in around the second season. Kinsey has just shut down the SGC, but Apophis isn't going to attack (at least, not right away, still debating that). Harry just finished up his fourth year, so this is in 1995. Everyone except O'Grady are original characters, his situation actually happened.

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28 May 2006


	2. Chapter I

_Warnings and Disclaimers:_ The first cuss words of the story. Pre-teens, beware.

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"_War is at best barbarism… Its glory is all moonshine… War is hell."  
_**-Gen. William T. Sherman**

**

* * *

**

Jack looked down one more time at his watch, then scanned the rapidly-clearing terminal. General Hammond hadn't been able to tell him anything about his new assignment, which in itself was worrying since the President and the General were usually on pretty good terms. All that had been in his orders packet had been instructions to fly commercially to London, where an unofficial representative of the Home Office was supposed to meet him.

And really, that "unofficial" just said it all. Welcome back to Black Ops, Colonel; don't tell anyone where you're going or we'll have the court martial waiting, sir. And the execution squad.

He snorted. Of course, if the op never got off the ground 'cause the _representative_ didn't show…

Well, it'd piss off all the generals, that was for sure, but he really couldn't care less. Nothing they could throw at him could make up for losing the Stargate. Nothing. And Jack didn't really give a fuck who knew it, because the only reason he wasn't retired yet was that slim hope that the Stargate Program wasn't down for good.

"Mr. O'Neill!"

Jack turned towards the voice, just barely holding in a snarl of "That's _Colonel_, asshole!" Damn, but he'd really gotten used to not being Special Ops… "Yes?" he offered tersely, eyeing the stranger walking towards him. The man was tall and skinny, with round glasses that didn't go too well with his receding hairline. He looked uncomfortable in a civilian business suit, but he didn't strike Jack as a hardcore soldier. More an aide of some sort, probably newly promoted to captain.

"Ca- John Leland. I'm here to pick you up," the man said, nodding to him. He pulled out a business card and handed it to the colonel. "If you'll follow me, sir?"

Jack looked down at the card in his hand. _General Edmund Blake_ was embossed in gold, and _21st Regiment_ in black beneath it. "Holy crap," he muttered. He'd known this was big, since the Brits had gone directly through the President, but what the hell was the head of the _SAS_ doing calling for overseas help?

Hell, it wasn't like he didn't have good people of his own. Which meant that Blake didn't want Jack for his combat record… and the only other thing that distinguished him from every other colonel out there was commanding SG-1.

"What's this really about?" he demanded, turning a narrow-eyed gaze on the British captain.

Leland shook his head. "I'm just here to pick you up, sir. I don't know anything about why you're here. So if you'll come with me, sir?" He gestured towards the concourse, the faintest hint of impatience in his movements.

Jack took a deep breath. It wasn't the captain's fault he hadn't been briefed on anything. With the Colonel of the Regiment himself involved, it was probably going to be the kind of mission where no more people than those absolutely necessary were told. "After you," he said with a mock bow, forcing an amiable grin.

After they'd picked up his single piece of luggage, Captain Leland led him out the doors of the London City Airport and to, of all things, a dark green Volkswagen Bug. The Brit twitched when he saw Jack's raised eyebrow. "It saves on the petrol," he said defensively.

The colonel smirked. "Cute," was all he said, before he hefted his bag to put it in the trunk under the hood. Leland twitched again. Good, Jack wasn't losing his touch. Baiting Daniel was fun, but the younger man had gotten used to it all too quickly.

Leland went around to the driver's side and got in. Jack followed suit, and before long they were negotiating the crowded streets of London. "So, where're we goin'? Westminster?" the American asked after a few minutes of silence.

"I was given an address to drop you off at, sir," Leland replied woodenly. Yep, Jack had gotten on his nerves, all right. He must really love his car. "I have no idea where you'll go after that."

Jack 'hmmed' and settled back into his seat. _No, not Westminster_, he thought, noting how they were traveling east. With something as hush-hush as this was looking to be, it probably wouldn't do to stroll right into the center of the British government anyway. He glanced out the window, hoping to see some of London's famous sights, but none were in view.

"So, what do you do?" he asked, idly drumming his fingers against the door frame.

"I work in the regiment's procurement offices," Leland answered, gritting his teeth. "Could you please not do that, sir? It's very distracting."

Obediently, Jack pulled his hand away from the pane, and set it on the armrest instead. "Procurement. And that's… what? Buying more paper when the pencil pushers run out?"

"My particular responsibility is to liaise with civilian contractors on technical data and design specifications. Mostly on small arms and individual equipment."

Jack snorted. "Sounds thrilling."

He could almost hear the teeth. They were really grinding now. "You'd be surprised, sir."

"Oh, I'm _sure_." It was just a little cramped inside the Bug, and the colonel shifted to try and give his knees some relief. The last year of semi-constant combat had left Jack finally starting to feel his age; or at least, started his knees feeling it. It was probably all the running, jumping, and diving through the 'Gate in the bare nick of time that had done it. Janet was keeping an eye on them, and was planning on giving him a prescription for pain medication if they got worse…

Jack grimaced. No, she wouldn't be, because the Stargate was gone, or as good as. Probably going to end up collecting dust in some military store room for the next century, or however long it was before the administration felt safe in opening it again. He had no doubt it would be opened again; eventually humanity was going to look to the stars and be serious about it for once.

He just kinda wished he'd be alive to see it.

Damn Kinsey, and all his lackeys and _especially_ the pull he had on the political side of things. The President was on their side, but even everything he'd tried to keep the SGC open had failed against that bastard. And Jack doubted it would stop there. Kinsey was the kind of person who, once they'd gained that crucial first bit of momentum, wouldn't stop until they were dead. The senator was aiming for the eventual presidency, that much was clear, and whenever Jack contemplated what kind of future was in store down that road, he got very, very depressed.

Jack was one of those people in whom depression leads to anger, and the armrest creaked under his hand as he gripped it tight. He still couldn't believe those idiots had listened to Kinsey! The Stargate was important, how could they not see that? And those blind, incompetent fools were sending him on a goddamn politico mission!

"Is… everything all right, sir?" Leland asked, eyeing the now continuously-creaking armrest with apprehension.

Jack forced his hand loose. "Oh, I'm just dandy," he growled, and the captain wisely didn't speak again.

A long and silent car ride later, they turned into an older district full of only moderately-seedy warehouses, and finally came to a stop on a narrow, sparsely-populated street. "This is your stop, sir," Leland said calmly, opening up his door and getting out.

By the time Jack had done the same, the captain already had his bag out and sitting on the curb. "My instructions say you're to wait here, sir. Good luck with whatever it is." He nodded briskly and returned to the car, a certain relaxation of his shoulders revealing how glad he was to see the last of the irritating American.

"Well, ain't this peachy," Jack muttered, staring after the departed vehicle. "The SGC's gone, Kinsey's jumping around doing cartwheels for joy, and I'm stranded in London with _no idea what the hell's going on_!"

At his shout, a deliveryman passing by gave him a strange look and hurried past. Jack closed his eyes and, his jaw clenched, focused on calming down.

It took some time.

By the time Jack could breathe calmly and evenly, and opened his eyes, a grey van had pulled up to the curb in front of him. The side door slide open, and a voice called out, "Colonel! In here!"

He hefted his bag and stepped inside. A uniformed young man wearing the sand-colored beret of the SAS slid the door shut behind him. Inside, a man with hair gone to silver waited on one of the seats that lined the far wall. He nodded to Jack, who nodded back uncertainly, but it was the middle-aged woman seated next to him who spoke first.

"This is the man you think can help us?" she asked in a light Scottish burr, studying Jack carefully. Under her stern gaze the American had to suppress the urge to run a hand through his hair and make sure his collar was straight. Her dark hair was pulled back into a strict bun, and she was wearing an old-fashioned high-collared business suit.

The silver-haired man- who was _not_, Jack noticed, wearing a uniform- nodded. "Yes, Ms. McGonagall, he is." He smiled at their guest. "This is Colonel Jack O'Neill, ma'am. Colonel, this is Professor Minerva McGonagall. She's here representing the people you've been assigned to aid."

Somehow, Jack wasn't at all surprised to find out that the woman was a schoolteacher. He bet no little munchkins ever disobeyed around _her_. "And you are…?" he trailed off, hoping he would finally be able to get some answers.

The man looked briefly chagrined. "Ah, yes. My name is Edmund Blake."

Jack instinctively straightened. "General."

"At ease." Jack sank down into the last open seat as the van began to move, on the opposite side from the scary schoolmarm. He might have been long decades away from his miscreant days in school, but the instinct to mend his ways until out of sight of the teacher still remained. "I imagine you're wondering just what your mission is, Colonel?"

"I might be," the American allowed, trying to keep his sarcasm to a relative minimum until he had a better idea of just where things were standing.

General Blake nodded abruptly. "Then listen closely. Your mission is to train a single individual to survive and thrive in a war. No more, no less. This particular war hasn't quite begun yet, but even so I wouldn't expect the civilian sector to ever hear about it."

Ah, Jack thought. One of _those_ wars. "Who, sir?"

"His name is Harry Potter. We're going to pick him up now, and then drop off both you and Professor McGonagall at the Underground to catch a train to your next destination." He looked unhappy about something for a moment. "There are certain parts of this mission you may and will likely object loudly to, but take my word for it now that there is, unfortunately, no other way."

The colonel filed that away for future consideration. "I see," was all he said aloud. "May I ask who this Potter guy will be fighting against?"

"A terrorist styling himself as Lord Voldemort who would like to rule the world, as well as commit a few massacres. He made a great deal of trouble a few years ago, but when it stopped, we thought the matter had been taken care of."

"But you were wrong, and now he's back," Jack filled in the rest for him. The general nodded. "Why just one man, sir?"

Blake winced and started to say something, but evidently thought better of it. "That… the reasoning is rather complex, Colonel, and might best wait until you've reached your posting."

Jack's lips tightened unhappily, but he went on. "And what resources will I have?"

"Everything our allies can give you," Blake nodded to the professor (and just why the hell was a _schoolteacher_ getting involved in a war, Jack wondered), "as well as whatever you need from us, short of a tactical nuke." Jack's eyebrows went up in surprise, and the Brit's lips quirked. "Unless it's _absolutely_ necessary, of course. The paperwork would be horrendous, and I wouldn't fancy explaining it to the United Nations."

"I… see." Jack looked down at his hands, clenched over the strap of his bag. This was big, he translated from the general's words, and complicated. Not the kind of situation you normally called a colonel in on, especially one from another country. Unless… "General, does this have anything to do with my… previous posting?" he asked, looking up.

He was assuming that the head of one of the best Special Forces units in the world would know about the Stargate, even if he technically wasn't supposed to. And indeed, there was recognition in the general's eyes, but Blake shook his head. "Not directly, Colonel. In certain respects, however, they could be considered rather similar. Which is why you were chosen."

McGonagall looked like she was wondering what they were talking about, but she kept as silent as she had been up to this point. Looking at her more closely, Jack finally saw the dark circles under her eyes, and the way worry had left lines etched into her face. "So… how much longer before we get to wherever Potter is?"

"About an hour," Blake answered, after conferring with the driver.

Trapped in an enclosed space for an hour with the head of a foreign special operations unit, the embodiment of the strict schoolmarm, and a trooper who was very good at blending into the wall and thus not a good choice for conversation.

Jack sighed. This would be… interesting.

* * *

A/N: It's official, I hate doing research. Unfortunately, for this one it's necessary… I hope you reap the benefits of my sacrifice!

And if Jack seems a little angry, well… he is. Pissed, in fact. Though I had to rewrite it because in the first version he wasn't angry enough… Thanks **P.L.S.**!

Grr, I've been trying to upload this for _ages_... Stupid website! ...Er, wait, no, I love you, website, don't stop working again...

Hugs to all my beginning reviewers!

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21 June 2006


	3. Chapter II

_Warnings and Disclaimers: _A bit more swearing. You're all so surprised, aren't you?

* * *

"_War is at best barbarism… Its glory is all moonshine… War is hell."  
_**-Gen. William T. Sherman**

* * *

It was actually a bit more than an hour that passed before the van slowed to a halt. "We're here, sir," the driver called back to his passengers.

The stilted pleasantries of the ride stopped as well. The trooper jumped up to open up the sliding down, and it was with true relief that Jack escaped out into the open air. There was only so much time you could fill with talking about the weather of a country you'd been in for less than a day, and sports you either didn't care about (soccer, or football as the general had called it) or that the other party had never heard of (how could McGonagall not know what hockey was?). Jack couldn't remember the last time he'd been so uncomfortable, though meeting Sara's parents had come close… All in all, he was glad it was over with.

"Well… damn," he muttered, staring at the neighborhood. "And I thought _American_ suburbia was bad."

The houses around them looked as though they'd come off an assembly line; while large, they were a uniform boxy shape, and the only differences between them were their yards and the cars parked in each driveway. The one the van had parked in front of had a large brass '4' nailed where it could be clearly seen from the street: likely the only way anyone could ever pick out the place from all its neighbors, Jack reflected.

Number Four was fronted by a low garden wall that supported a lawn perfectly green and trimmed in the bright Saturday sun. A greenhouse peeked over the wall that separated the front from the back, and several chimneys reared up from the roof. "Looks nice," the colonel offered diffidently, after a few moments had passed. "They've got a good gardener."

Professor McGonagall snorted bitterly as she stepped out beside him, and Jack gave her a startled look. "Oookay," he muttered to himself. Was mentioning plants around the woman a bad idea?

"Feels good to be able to stretch a little," General Blake said, coming out to join them on the sidewalk. He let a minute go by, before turning to the professor. "Shall we retrieve Mr. Potter, madam?"

McGonagall nodded abruptly and strode up the walkway. Jack and the general trailed after her, Blake looking grim and the American more confused than ever. This wasn't at all what he'd been expecting, after the secrecy surrounding his arrival. He'd thought they'd pick up Potter from some top secret lab somewhere, not the middle of Suburbia, Brit-style.

McGonagall rang the doorbell. At first there was no response, but then the trio heard slow, heavy footsteps coming from inside. The door opened, and Jack couldn't help but gape at the boy on the other side.

_What the _hell_ are his parents thinking!_ he wondered, outraged at the sight. Saying the kid was obese was like saying the ocean was deep, or Carter was smart; the word just wasn't enough to convey how incredibly _round_ he was. Janet would've been going into hysterics over his cholesterol levels and arteries, and even Jack would have put money on his having a heart attack by the time he turned twenty-five. Why wasn't anyone getting him medical help?

"What do you want?" he asked sullenly.

"We're here to collect Harry Potter," the professor stated calmly, not looking at all surprised by the boy's appearance. In fact, she looked rather disgusted.

The boy blinked up at her for a moment with watery blue eyes, as though he couldn't quite comprehend the request. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and looked back inside. "DAD!" he yelled out, making them all jump. "They want the freak!"

Jack wasn't sure which astonished him more, the shout or the way Professor McGonagall growled and nearly stepped forward after hearing it. "That is _quite_ enough of that, Dudley Dursley."

The boy turned and stared at her. "How do you know my name?" he asked, his heavy features screwed up in suspicion.

A man even larger than the boy appeared from further inside, interrupting McGonagall's answer. Jack wasn't impressed, even though a good bit of his size was actually muscle; being around Teal'c had raised his standards on just what "big" meant. "Who the bloody blazes are you?" he demanded.

The woman drew herself up, her face set in dislike. "My name is Minerva McGonagall. I teach at Hogwarts-"

Instantly the man went a bright shade of red. "You're another one of those freaks!" he nearly yelled, grabbing Dudley's shoulder and pulling him back away from them. The boy was all too willing to go, running out of sight with his hands clamped over his bottom. "Get out! How _dare_ you come here, to _my_ house, in the middle of the daylight? _Get out!_"

He tried to slam the door closed, but General Blake stepped forward to stop it, and after a startled moment Jack did the same. Together they were able to force the door inwards, despite the large man's angry shouting and constant pushing from the other side. "Mr. Dursley," McGonagall said, stepping calmly inside as soon as they had forced the door open wide enough, "I assure you I no more want to be here than you want me here. Nevertheless, I am not leaving without Mr. Potter. If you would be so good as to call him down, so both of our wishes may be fulfilled?"

Dursley had given up on trying to force them out and was glaring at the professor, panting and with an even redder face. He seemed almost about to attack her, but then his eyes went past them, and he went perfectly still. Jack looked back to see the trooper and the driver had both run up behind them when they'd seen their commander trying to force the door. One of them had a pistol out and in plain view of their unhappy host.

"Mr. Dursley," McGonagall said again, her voice like a whip.

He glowered at her for another moment, and Jack stepped up behind her to stare menacingly back. He was really starting to not like the guy- he'd been nothing but an ass since the moment they'd shown up, and from the sounds of it he was the bastard who'd let his son put his health in such risk. In the event he _did_ attack, Jack knew he wouldn't feel any qualms at all about putting Dursley into the hospital; he could see the same dislike he was feeling on Blake's face, so the colonel doubted there'd be any kind of official notice if he did, either.

"Vernon, what's going on?" a shrill voice cried out, and a slender, bony woman nearly ran into the hallway, which was steadily growing more crowded. Jack took a step to the side to try to give them some more room, and nearly knocked over an expensive-looking, if generic vase with his elbow. His instinctive move to catch it nearly sent him into the pictures lining the walls, all of them of Vernon and the woman, with Dudley parked between them at various ages.

You could tell which order they'd been taken in, given the way the kid looked progressively fatter in each photo.

"They're here for the boy, Petunia," Dursley growled in reply. "She's says she's from his _school_." He gestured towards Professor McGonagall, and Petunia took a step back in horror.

"Take him!" she yelped, waving towards the switch-back stairs a few feet away. "Just take him, and go, before the neighbors see you!"

Jack's gaze automatically followed her gesture, coming to rest on the shape, hidden in the shadows, that watched the ruckus from the landing above. It wasn't surprising that Potter had come out to see what was going on, given the noise they were making, a part of him thought, but the rest was occupied with what Dursley had just implied.

No, not implied, said outright! "_Boy_?" Jack repeated numbly, turning towards Blake. The general wouldn't meet his questioning gaze, instead choosing to look away with an uncomfortable expression on his face.

"We've come to collect you, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall called up to the shrouded figure. "You won't be returning before the school year begins, so grab all your things as well."

Potter stepped forward into better light to peer down at them more closely over the railing. He was as skinny as the first boy had been round, and had that oddly stretched out look kids got after having a major growth spurt. Green eyes studied them suspiciously from behind round wire-framed glasses, and messy dark hair left him looking as though they'd startled him out of bed. "Professor," he said in a light baritone, and then hesitated. "…Why did you put me on the team in my first year?"

For a moment McGonagall looked puzzled, but then her face softened in understanding. "You'd caught Mr. Longbottom's toy after a fifty-foot dive, Mr. Potter. Now, your things?"

The wariness had vanished from the terrifyingly young boy's eyes, and he smiled down at them. "Yes, Professor." He took a step back, and then stopped. "Er, I might need some help…?"

Blake gestured, and the two men whose names Jack still didn't know piled up the stairs. Potter vanished from view again, presumably to pack, but the American wasn't really paying much attention to it at that point.

"What the _hell_ is going on here, General?" he hissed, turning on the older man.

Blake's flinch was almost imperceptible, and there was something disturbingly helpless in his expression when he faced Jack. "Now isn't the time, Colonel O'Neill," he said softly, his eyes flickering towards their "hosts".

Jack turned to see Vernon Dursley staring suspiciously at them. At some point the man had moved to stand protectively in front of his wife, and his son Dudley was peering at the gathering through a doorway, his hands still out of sight behind his back. "And when _will_ it be the time for you to tell me why you want me to train a _child_ for war, _sir_?" he asked, deliberately infusing the title with as much contempt as he could, even as he kept his voice too quiet to be overheard.

Blake glared at him. "God damn you, O'Neill, this isn't my choice!" He briefly closed his eyes, and when the general opened them again they were anguished. "It's not his choice, either. It's _nobody's_ choice. It's just the way it is. All we can do is try to help, because I don't know about you, but there's no way I could live with myself if I didn't try!"

The other man's reply, though he could tell it was sincere, did nothing to quell Jack's rising outrage. "There's always another way-" he started to say, heatedly, before they were interrupted by the two soldiers carrying an old-fashioned steamer trunk down the stairs. Potter followed them closely, the skinny boy glancing curiously at their argument as he stepped over to McGonagall's side.

"Fine, you've got the brat," Dursley growled, straightened his not-inconsiderable mass and glaring at his visitors. "Now _get the hell out of my house_!"

McGonagall sniffed disdainfully and put a hand on her student's shoulder. "Come along, Mr. Potter. You won't need to see these… _people_, again until next summer. And not then, if I have any say in it."

There was no way Jack was imagining the look of sheer relief on the kid's face as he was led out the door. A tiny, unhappy suspicion wormed its way into his brain and settled there, and he gave the three Dursleys a hard look as he followed Blake out the door.

Somehow, Jack had the feeling this wouldn't be the last time he'd run into this particular family. He didn't think the next time would be any more pleasant.

* * *

A/N: For those who asked, have no fear, the Jack/Dursley stand-off _will _occur; it's too good of an ideanot to throw in at some point. There just wasn't time right now and still have it go the way I wanted it too. Also, the fact he's training a kid hasn't fully impacted Jack. You can expect the explosion, oh... right around the time he meets a certain Headmaster. Who is NOT evil in this, to answer that question I'm sure you're all thinking.

Everyone applaud **P.L.S**., whose comments make the story better for every one of us! (Provided the author is able to fix what's wrong... sheepish grin)

* * *

4 July 2006 (Enjoy the fireworks, everyone in the States!)


	4. Chapter III

_Warnings and Disclaimers:_ The O'Neill temper is beginning to rise…

* * *

"_War is at best barbarism… Its glory is all moonshine… War is hell."  
_**-Gen. William T. Sherman**

**

* * *

**

The van was getting kind of cramped.

The Potter boy had squeezed in next to his teacher, and kept sending surreptitious, curious glances at both Jack and the general beside him. They were crammed almost uncomfortably close, especially since Jack was doing his utmost best not to look at Blake. He was afraid that if he did, he'd punch the man and cause an international incident.

"Um, Professor?" Potter ventured after they'd spent nearly ten minutes in an uneasy silence. "Where are we going? And… what's been going on? Only, I haven't heard anything since school let out…"

McGonagall patted his hand. "That's because nothing's happened. We haven't heard anything from You-Know-Who since the Third Task."

If she'd intended to reassure the kid, she managed just the opposite. Potter looked suddenly worried, even as Jack mouthed "You-Know-Who?" to himself. "But then… the Ministry…"

"Refuses to admit he's returned." The professor's mouth twisted sourly. "The Headmaster has been trying to get him to see reason, but Minister Fudge has decided to bury his head in the sand."

"We're on our own, then," Potter said quietly, staring down at his clasped hands. He seemed smaller to Jack, and even younger than before.

Hesitating for a few seconds, McGonagall shook her head. "Not entirely."

Her eyes were on Jack, who blinked, taken aback. She couldn't mean… Was he the only help these people were getting? One aging American colonel with bad knees and a rarely-appreciated sense of humor? That was…

No, wait, he'd forgotten. All they needed was a kid who didn't even need to shave yet. Jack was only there to _train_ him. Why in the world would they need more help than that? After all, it wasn't like they were about to fight a _war_, or anything… And speaking of which, Jack could have sworn the only kind of war schoolteachers got involved in was the war against drugs. So why was Professor McGonagall involved, and one of her students as well, in a situation the head of the SAS described as "complex"?

Damn, but he wished he had Daniel along. The archaeologist was good at solving mysteries. Jack had trouble filling out the crossword puzzle in the morning paper.

A startled sound drew Jack's attention back to his company. Potter had followed his teacher's gaze to the American, and now was looking at him with wide, nervous eyes. Jack stared back for a long moment, and then nearly swore as he realized that as he'd thought, his expression had gradually settled into the look he normally reserved for Goa'uld and Senator Kinsey.

No wonder the kid looked like he'd been locked in a room with a poisonous reptile.

"Um, hi," Jack said awkwardly with a little wave. Somehow he had a feeling he'd just screwed up that whole 'first impression' bit.

"Hi," Potter mumbled in return. He didn't look like Jack had managed to reassure him any more than McGonagall had. "…Who are you?"

"The name's Jack, Jack O'Neill." Jack looked to the professor for aid, but she only pursed her lips. Another look toward Blake didn't give him any more help. "I guess I'm supposed to… train you…" The words left a bad taste in his mouth, but he refused to let it show on his face again. It wasn't the kid's fault, after all.

But Jack planned on having a very long talk with whoever had set this insanity in motion. Or perhaps a very short one. Fists didn't need to say much to make their point.

"Oh." Potter seemed to be arguing with himself for a few seconds, before hesitantly leaning forward and stretching out his hand. "Mine's Harry Potter."

Jack reached out to take it with a smile that barely needed to be forced even through his lingering ire. Maybe he hadn't messed up quite so badly as he'd thought… "Nice to meet you."

Potter nodded back, plainly still a little uncertain about his new acquaintance. "Professor?" he said, turning back to McGonagall. "You never said where we were going."

"We're taking the train to Hogwarts, child. A few professors have volunteered to stay there, as well as Mr. O'Neill," Jack almost interrupted with "Colonel". Almost. Why was it these people couldn't get his rank right? "-and you'll be staying there as well until the school year begins."

The boy smiled. "Thank you, Professor."

McGonagall frowned. It seemed to be a fairly common expression for her. "Don't thank me, Mr. Potter. We cannot rely on You-Know-Who to be quiescent forever."

Abashed, Potter returned to staring down at his hands. "Oh."

Sensing the silence that was about to ensue, Jack just had to ask. "'You-Know-Who'?"

"Voldemort," Potter said automatically, glancing up at him in surprise. McGonagall twitched even as Jack made an understanding moue, and the boy winced. "Sorry, Professor."

The American blinked and looked between the two of them, confused. "Sorry about what?"

McGonagall's frown deepened. "We do not say his name."

What the hell? "I… see." He didn't really, but under her stern gaze Jack settled back into what little room he had and closed his mouth. Blake gave him a sympathetic look, having taken the wiser route of staying silent in the first place.

They stayed that way for the rest of the drive.

o0o0o

Jack had been in London before on business, but he'd never had a chance to ride the rails. King's Cross Station was a beautiful old building of yellowed brick, but crowded as all hell. Blake had stayed in the van while he, McGonagall and the kid got out, and before they'd taken off into the station the general had quietly wished him luck. The American nearly hadn't returned his sincere salute, but a last vestige of diplomacy Daniel would have been astonished to see made him give a choppy, reluctant salute in return.

Once the three of them were past the turnstiles, Jack took the lead to force a way through the crowd. "Where are we going?" he called back, before muttering an apology to a teenaged girl he'd nearly run into.

"Platform Nine and Three-Quarters," McGonagall said primly, trying her best to keep from touching any of the bodies crowding around her. Just behind the professor came Potter, who was pushing his trunk on a trolley. On top of the trunk was an empty bird cage Jack hadn't noticed until he'd helped to unload it from the van, and the use of which he couldn't imagine, since no bird had accompanied it.

The colonel did a double take. "But… look, Professor, unless the British have seriously run out of space I kind of doubt the platforms come in fractions!"

McGonagall granted him a cool look in return. "Be that as it may, Mr. O'Neill, keep going until you reach the space between platforms Nine and Ten."

Muttering to himself about bossy schoolmarms, Jack turned back around and resumed pushing through the other pedestrians. "Don't dawdle, if you please," the professor said sharply, as though she could hear him. "Our train leaves very shortly."

Biting his tongue, Jack chanced a look back at Potter. The boy was keeping his head down, concentrating on the trolley, but Jack could have sworn he saw his lips twitch from beneath that mop he called hair.

Platforms Nine and Ten looked just like every other platform they'd passed. Exasperated, Jack stopped by the wall separating them and waited for the others to catch up. "Well? Now what?" he asked as McGonagall came level with him. She snorted softly as she passed him by. Jack started to turn to follow her, only to catch a man bumping into Potter's trolley from the corner of his eye.

He lunged forward in time to help the boy keep his trunk on board, but the bird cage fell off with a ringing clatter that drew every eye for twenty yards. Cursing quietly, and then looking guiltily at the kid, Jack grabbed it up off the ground and shoved it back on top of the trunk.

"Thanks," Potter said shortly, flushing with embarrassment. Jack nodded an acknowledgement and turned back to follow McGonagall.

Only to be brought up short as he found she'd vanished from sight.

"Aw, crap," he sighed. This just really wasn't his day… Jack looked at his young companion. "I don't suppose you know where she went?"

Potter blinked up at him. "Er, she went to the platform, sir."

Jack raised a skeptical eyebrow, a habit picked up from Teal'c. "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?" Potter nodded. The eyebrow went up a bit farther. "And… you know where this platform is?"

The boy nodded again, and gestured over Jack's shoulder. "It's just over there."

Jack followed the gesture, but didn't see anything more than a few other prospective passengers and the brick wall separating Nine and Ten. "Over there?" It was impossible to hide the doubt in his voice. He glanced back at Potter. "Okay, I'm not getting it. What's the joke?"

Potter sighed and pushed his trolley toward the wall. "Here, sir," he said, waving towards the bricks. "This is the entrance."

"Potter-" Jack started to say, and then stumbled to a halt. The kid wasn't a green recruit like Jack had been treating him; using his last name out loud instead of inside his head just sounded wrong. "Look, can I call you Harry?"

The boy nodded warily, and the colonel relaxed a bit. "Harry," he continued, "this is just a wall. A rather dingy, but more importantly a _solid_ wall. Not a platform, let alone platform _N__ine and Three-Quarters_!" He didn't want to get mad at the kid, he really didn't, but as the day wore on Jack found himself getting more and more irritated. He was a little surprised he'd managed to keep a lock on it thus far.

Unlike before in the van, though, Harry didn't seem fazed. "Sir, if we don't hurry we're going to miss the Hogwarts Express," he said, glancing at a nearby clock. "Maybe if you'll take a closer look?"

Jack stared at him for a long moment, until the American realized he was serious. Sighing in frustration, he turned and bent forward to study the wall minutely. "Brick, more brick, yuck, someone's old gum," he humored his companion. "What exactly is it I'm supposed to be-"

In hindsight, Jack supposed he should have expected the hands that planted themselves at the small of his back and shoved, but he'd let his guard down around Harry. He had only a bare moment to brace himself for impact, fully expecting to run face-first painfully into the wall.

So he was very shocked indeed when instead he felt a sensation like cobwebs running over his skin, and then stumbled out onto a brightly platform. An old-fashioned steam locomotive painted a vivid, fire-engine red blew its whistle just beyond, while a milling crowd of people in robes loaded their things on board. A conductor yelled out "_Hogwarts Express_, leaving for _Winters-_down, _Tigh-_Na_-Ruaich_, _Hogs-_meade, and Loch_ Tay_ in _five minutes_!" in an attention-getting sing-song.

Oddly enough, though, what drew Jack's attention were a few cast-iron letters welded to the wall. "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters," he muttered, dazed.

"I'll be damned."

* * *

A/N: I apparently am unable to concentrate on any fic but this at the moment… which rather sucks, because I really need to get out chapters on _Strains of Melody_ and _Storm Child._ Sigh. Tigh-Na-Ruaich and Loch Tay are real places, but are likely located nowhere near each other. Please pretend for the purposes of the story.

And as always, thank P.L.S. for betaing this story.

* * *

**12 July 2006**


	5. Chapter IV

**Warnings and Disclaimers:** Any and all opinions expressed by a certain wizard are not automatically shared by the author. I _like_ Slytherins! In every test I've ever taken I'm a Ravenclaw with Slytherin tendencies!

* * *

"_War is at best barbarism… Its glory is all moonshine… War is hell."  
_**-Gen. William T. Sherman

* * *

**

Even dazed as he was, the sound of footsteps and the rattle of the trolley brought Jack around to see Harry stepping unruffled onto the platform, through an arch that showed no signs whatsoever of having been a solid wall only moments earlier. He could see pedestrians walking around outside, acting perfectly normal and calm as though two people hadn't just walked- _been pushed_- through a wall in front of them.

"Wha… but…" Jack spluttered, waving a hand at the clear archway. Sure, he'd seen some truly weird and amazing things, but always on other planets! Earth was supposed to be safe, and ordinary…

Harry gave him an odd look, stopping just past him. "It's just an illusion, sir," he said, his voice puzzled. "To make sure no one gets on the platform who isn't supposed to be."

One of Jack's eyebrows went up again. Next time he saw Teal'c, the colonel would have to tell him how much he'd been practicing. "_Illusion_?"

The boy blinked back at him, for a few seconds looking even more confused than Jack. Then his eyes went wide. "You… you're a _muggle_! But-"

"Mr. O'Neill, Mr. Potter, if you would please get on board!" Professor McGonagall called out from near the train, cutting Harry off in mid-protest. The kid glanced over at her, then back at Jack, something helpless in his eyes before he shook his head and turned back to his trolley.

Puzzled, Jack caught up to him just in time to help lift his trunk on board.

-

Before heading towards the front of the train, to speak with the conductor, she said, Professor McGonagall saw the two of them settled into a booth. She turned a stern gaze to Harry, who was carefully shoving his empty birdcage up on a ledge over the seats. "Should anything happen, Mr. Potter, you may defend yourself. We weren't able to get the Ministry to lift the Underage Restrictions on you, but on this train and at Hogwarts they won't be able to detect anything you may happen to do."

Harry gave her a smile in return that had more than a shade of unhappiness to it. "Thank you, Professor," he said quietly.

She nodded, and then they were alone in the compartment. The train started to move soon after, but for a few minutes more they both stayed almost stubbornly silent.

"So," Jack finally said, and Harry's eyes snapped towards him as the silence was broken. "How long is this ride going to be, exactly?"

The boy thought for a moment. "Well… in September, we always leave at eleven in the morning, and with no stops we get there just before dusk. So maybe… eight hours? Nine?"

Jack couldn't stop the wince. First the twelve-hour flight from Colorado Springs to D.C., then to London, flying commercial all the way because this farce was a be-damned black ops mission. Then the car ride with the close-mouthed captain, and the not one, but _two_ stiflingly uncomfortable trips trapped inside the van between McGonagall and Blake. And now, a nine-hour train ride!

For someone who had just gotten used to traveling to other _planets _in less than the blink of an eye, Jack had to say that traveling on Earth severely sucked.

"Wonderful," the American muttered, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. After a moment his eyes opened again to look at his companion. "I don't suppose you have anything to read I could borrow from you? I wasn't expecting this…"

Reading away the hours didn't sound particularly thrilling, but Jack had only managed to catch a couple of hours of sleep, despite catching an overnight flight. Maybe a book would make it past his body's keyed-up state and put him to sleep.

Harry looked apologetic. "Just my schoolbooks, sir. Usually there're only Hogwarts students on the train, so we just talk to each other."

The colonel's lips quirked. Schoolbooks sounded mind-numbing enough to work. "That'd be fine, thanks." The boy got up from his seat and opened up his trunk, which sat beneath the window. He rummaged around inside, pushing aside several outfits of what Jack could have sworn were black robes like the people on the station had been wearing. "We're going to Hogwarts, right? What's it like?" he asked, feeling a dark suspicion take hold of him.

If McGonagall, Harry, and this Voldemort character were all a part of some cult, it would do a lot to explain why the British government wasn't officially getting involved. Governmental interference with cults never ended well, with the Waco fiasco only a couple of years ago as a prime example. And civil war within a cult might make the Brits even more reluctant to take direct action.

In response to Jack's question the kid's face lit up. "It's wonderful! There's no place like it. The school is in this enormous castle, on a hill above a lake, and it's the most beautiful place you've ever seen! Right by it is the Forbidden Forest, and between the Forest and the castle is the Quidditch pitch-"

Jack hid his grin at the name of the forest- the school must've had a problem with students sneaking in, and undoubtedly now had an even bigger problem with it- but had to ask about the second, because it just sounded so ridiculous. "Quidditch?"

"It's a sport we play. Er, Americans don't play it, I don't think. They play Quodpot, or something like that." Harry paused in his rummaging to wrinkle his nose at Jack, who openly grinned this time. The transformation from the wary, subdued boy of earlier to this bright enthusiasm was remarkable. If anything, it reminded him of Daniel, about to launch into one of his lectures on some squiggle-covered rock that generally made Jack interrupt and ask for a summary made of nice, simple words. Come to think of it, if Harry kept using words he'd never heard of, Jack might have to ask for those from him as well… "Each of the houses has a Quidditch team, and we all play each other for the Quidditch Cup at the end of the year."

He stopped and blinked at the older man. "Er, the students at Hogwarts are divided into four houses, based mostly on personality. I'm a Gryffindor, and the other houses are Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin."

"What kind of personality ends up in which?" Jack asked. That kind of system might give him some insight into his student's character.

"Ravenclaws are the bookish types; they like to know things for the sake of knowing them. For most of them, that makes them good students, but it also makes them terrible gossips. Actually, most people at Hogwarts gossip a lot," Harry added with a rueful smile towards Jack. "In my first year, the Headmaster told me something like, the surest way to make sure the entire school knows something is to declare it a complete secret."

Jack grinned to himself. That sounded an awful lot like the SGC. The speed at which rumors circulated in the converted missile silo had astounded him, that first year.

"Gryffindors are recklessly brave. At least, we're reckless according to the Slytherins. They're… kind of our opposites." Harry grimaced. "In fact, you could just about say we hate each other. They're sneaky and will do anything to get ahead. They're more likely to attack you from behind than from where you can see them coming."

This time, the colonel frowned as he tried to think of a way to say it without treading on the kid's obvious dislike. "Those… aren't really bad traits to have, you know. In moderation." Especially when you're headed into a war.

The boy's face set stubbornly. "Voldemort was a Slytherin," he said simply.

He wanted to sigh. Well, now he knew at least part of what he might need to teach Harry, though if Jack had his way it wouldn't ever be necessary. He had no problem at all with never teaching the kid how useful dirty tricks like shooting your enemies in the back could be.

And on the other hand, the beginning of a connection between Voldemort and the boy in front of him had been confirmed. What kind of place really was this Hogwarts, though, to turn out both Harry and the massacre-causing, world-ruler-wannabe Blake had described?

Realizing the compartment had been quiet just a tad too long, Jack glanced at Harry, who was still kneeling on the floor next to his trunk but was now staring moodily off at nothing. "So, uh, that was three of the houses, wasn't it?" he asked quickly.

Harry jumped a little, twisting to look at the American. "Er… yeah. Hufflepuff. They're…" He hesitated over his words. "They're supposed to be the most loyal kids, and the hardest workers, but most people just think of Hufflepuff as the catch-all house, the one the students who couldn't make it into the other houses get put into. I used to think that too," he added, at last returning his attention to the contents of his trunk.

About to ask what had changed his mind, Jack shut his mouth with a quiet 'click' when Harry spoke again. "Cedric was a Hufflepuff," he said sadly, almost to himself as he pulled out a handful of books. "And he was one of the bravest boys I knew."

A little stunned by the past tense, Jack automatically accepted the books held out to him. Not looking down at them, he watched as Harry resettled himself in his seat. For a moment the boy seemed unaware of his regard, plucking absentmindedly at the hem of his oversized t-shirt, but then he looked up and met Jack's eyes with a frown. "Sir?" he started. "…Just who are you, anyway? I know you're supposed to help train me, but… how can you do that if you're a muggle?"

The colonel's first contemplated response was that he was rather wondering that himself, but instead he sighed. "First off, I need to reintroduce myself. Colonel Jack O'Neill, of the United States Air Force." He held out his hand in a repeat of their earlier meeting, and a startled Harry shook it. "And second… what the hell's a muggle?"

Harry started to say something, then stopped and laughed. "You know, I think I might need to reintroduce myself, too. Harry Potter, fifth-year Gryffindor, and the Boy-Who-Lived." His voice while saying that last was bitter enough that Jack knew there was a not-very-happy, and most likely very long story behind it.

"And a muggle is a person who doesn't have magic."

* * *

A/N: Odd as it seems, the length of the train ride between King's Cross and Hogsmeade really _is_ nine hours, even though nine hours on a train in England puts you out in the Atlantic. Go figure.

Before anyone starts yelling at me about anything, go and read the disclaimer at the top of the page, please.

Oh, and my freshman year at the university starts in about two weeks. Hopefully I'll get out another chapter on something before then, but after is iffy until I get used to my new schedule.

* * *

6 August 2006


	6. Chapter V

Warnings and Disclaimers: Clarke's Law, which I have eagerly adopted, was suggested by **Morange**. (I knew the law, but I couldn't remember the name to save me…)

**----**

"_War is at best barbarism… Its glory is all moonshine… War is hell."  
_**-Gen. William T. Sherman**

**----**

Jack blinked. "…Come again?" He couldn't really be serious, could he?

The boy winced. "I'm guessing no one's told you anything…" He pulled a slender length of wood from his pocket and began to roll it in his fingers.

"You can say that again," the colonel said with a snort. "But still, there's no such thing as magic. The closest you can get is Clarke's Law."

If there was one thing the day had possessed in spades, it was confusion. This time, though, it was Harry's turn, not Jack's. "Pardon? Whose law?"

"Clarke's Law. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." Jack was proud of that little tidbit of knowledge. It had only taken a few missions of listening to Carter mutter to herself about keeping Clarke in mind whenever they saw something particularly amazing before he got curious and looked it up.

Harry shook his head. "That might make sense, except that magic and technology are mutually exclusive. Hogwarts doesn't even have electricity. And besides, muggles aren't anywhere _near_ as advanced as they'd need to be to do some of what we do."

_Oh, I bet we could surprise you_, Jack thought, but stopped himself from saying it out loud. Court martials and all that. "Still, there's no such thing as magic."

The boy sighed and pointed the stick in his hand at the books Jack was holding. He muttered something that to the American's ears sounded like gibberish, though Jack had a feeling Daniel would have been able to make some sense of it, and motioned with the stick. "And what's that, then?"

Jack stared at the books hovering in front of his face and swallowed. Slowly, he lifted his hand and ran it over the top of the stack, then around the sides and across the bottom. He encountered no wires, no obvious means of support… "That's not possible," he finally whispered as he tried to push them back down. They stayed stubbornly hung in midair, no matter how much pressure he applied.

"That won't work," Harry said quietly, as though he understood just what Jack was going through. "They won't go down until I cancel the spell." The boy flicked his stick… wand?... at the books again, and Jack yelped in surprise and pain as they tumbled into his lap.

Harry looked horrified. "Sorry! I'd didn't mean…" He trialed off in chagrin as Jack pushed the books off onto the seat beside him and rubbed his sore thigh. The colonel debated giving him a good glare, but decided against it; the kid really didn't seem the type to do something like that on purpose.

"Don't worry about it," he reassured the embarrassed boy, though it didn't seem to have much effect. Sighing, Jack glanced down at the messy pile of books he'd made, and nearly did a double take as he read their titles for the first time. "_The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4_," he read out loud. "_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_. What…?"

Still blushing a little, Harry gave him a tentative smile. "They're my schoolbooks. From last year. I don't have this year's yet…"

Jack rummaged through the rest of the stack, feeling himself grow steadily more and more numb. Against every bit of will that he could throw against the thought, maybe… just maybe… "This Hogwarts school," he said slowly. "What, exactly, does it teach?"

The smile flickered uncertainly as Harry met the older man's eyes. "It's really the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"I see…" A school that taught magic. How… unexpected.

Jack knew he was acting oddly. He hadn't been nearly as fazed as he was now when he'd been briefed on the Stargate, the first or second time. He supposed it was because aliens and traveling to other planets was generally accepted as something that would happen, if in the distant future; it wasn't just possible, it was probable. But _magic_…

Right now, he kind of felt like someone had blindsided him with a two-by-four. Wielded by a Jaffa. With nails in it. He'd always taken comfort in the fact that, though he had seen some truly wacky things through the 'Gate, Carter or Daniel were generally able to come up with explanations for them. But this, this was a whole different story. This was the fulfillment of the fantasy every child had, that somewhere there was something in the world that defied all sense, all logic, that could make all things better with just a word. The same fantasy that every child had to put away at some point, as they grew up and found that some things just couldn't be fixed. That _Jack_ had had to put away, once in childhood, and once again when he held his son's body in his arms. This was…

This was too much to take in. Jack felt the weight of the exhaustion he'd been hoping for finally crash over him, leaving him, in a rare occurrence, feeling his age as well. He sighed, gathering the books together and holding them out to a startled Harry. "Thanks, but I think I'm going to get some rest instead," the American told him. "I'm too tired to think about this clearly."

The boy took the books with a silent nod, and Jack stretched out as well as he was able on the seats. The compartment was just a little narrower than he was long, and his last thought before he let himself drift off into dreamland was that he was going to be sore when he woke up.

**----**

_Scritch_. _Scritch_ _scratch_. And _scritch_ again.

Jack groaned as the sound invaded his ears, and pushed his head further into his pillow to try and block it out. The duffel resisted, its rough fabric scraping at his stubble, and the colonel started to wake up as he realized something wasn't right.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Harry, curled up asleep on the opposite row of seats. He'd bundled up what looked like one of his black robes to use as his own pillow, and one hand was loosely wrapped around his wand. He wasn't moving, Jack thought as he sat up, rubbing his gritting eyes, so who was making that damn scratching noise?

A glance around the compartment revealed no other occupants. It wasn't until the noise came again that his eyes were drawn to the window, and Jack stared, taken aback.

There was an owl flying alongside the train. Every few seconds, it would fly closer, and scratch a claw against the window pane, before the slipstream forced it away. Even as he watched, it came in for another pass, and hooted angrily at him as the wind tore it away from the window.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Jack muttered to himself, getting to his feet despite his generalized aching from what must have been at least a few hours in that cramped position. He stumbled over to the window, unlatching it and letting a stuff breeze into the compartment. The owl followed soon after, buffeting him around the head with a snowy wing as it went past.

"Hey!" he protested, rubbing his ear. As he shut the window again, the owl flew over to the slowly-waking Harry, landing beside his head and nibbling at his ear until the boy opened his eyes.

"I'm awake already," the teenager groaned, sitting up and running a hand through his messy hair, which Jack noticed did absolutely nothing to straighten it. "Lay off, Hedwig."

The owl fluttered off to land on Harry's trunk, hooting in what sounded, to Jack's ears, suspiciously like satisfaction. "So I take it you two know each other," Jack said dryly, reseating himself.

Harry jumped a little, like he'd forgotten the older man was there. "Er, yeah. Hagrid gave Hedwig to me when I first started at Hogwarts. She's my familiar." He blinked and turned towards her. "Hedwig, this is Colonel O'Neill. He'll be teaching me, I guess." The snowy owl hooted quietly in acknowledgement, preening under their attention as she ran her wickedly sharp beak through her feathers.

Jack grinned to himself as he looked back and forth between the two. The kid had to care a lot about his pet, because he had the same look on his face as he'd had when he was talking about that Quidditch thing. It was a lot better than the polite little smile he wore all the rest of the time, more like the age he was supposed to be rather than the mini-adult that Jack had been introduced to.

Harry got up and opened his trunk, reaching in and pulling out a little bag. He started feeding the owl bits of whatever was in it, murmuring quietly to her all the while. Jack stretched, trying to work some of the kinks out of his back, and took a look at his watch.

"What the hell?" he wondered out loud as he stared at the blinking numbers. "Damn it, I could have sworn I just changed the batteries on this thing…"

"It's not the watch. We must be getting close to Hogwarts."

Jack glanced up at Harry, who was watching him and paying no notice whatsoever to the owl climbing up to his shoulder. "And I say…huh?"

Harry frowned at him. "I told you. Magic and technology don't mix well. When there's too much magic around, muggle technology stops working. And Hogwarts is one of the most magical places in the world."

The American blinked. Well… damn. If a watch had too much technology to work, then his cell phone definitely wouldn't. And what was it Harry had said earlier, something about Hogwarts not having electricity?

No electricity, no technology whatsoever… Out of nowhere Jack could feel a smile creeping across his lips. It was a good thing it was him on this mission, and not Carter. Without her laptop, she'd have gone completely cuckoo within the week.

The compartment door slid open, then, and Professor McGonagall stepped inside. She looked briefly surprised, to see them both awake, he guessed, but it passed after a bare moment. "We're about ten minutes from Hogsmeade," she informed them. "A student carriage will meet us at the station. I'd suggest you get yourselves ready to depart."

She pulled out a wand of her own as she turned to go, and almost absentmindedly waved it down her front. Her sober business suit seemed to _twist_ in Jack's vision, finally resolving itself into a set of navy-blue robes.

Jack stared after her, amazed, until he heard a quiet chuckle beside him. "Professor McGonagall teaches Transfiguration," Harry explained. "Turning one thing into another. If you think that was wicked, you should see her change into her animagus form. She's a tabby cat."

Jack directed his astonished gaze to the boy. "You can turn into _animals_?"

Harry nodded. "Some of us can. It's really hard, and not everyone can, for some reason. I want to learn how. My dad was one, so I think I've got a good chance at it."

"Really? What did he change into?" the colonel asked, as beneath them the train began to slow with much squealing from the brakes.

"A stag," Harry answered, turning and starting to straighten up his things. He didn't bother folding the robe he'd used as a pillow before he tossed it in his trunk. The books were already stacked inside. "I don't know what I'd be, though. It's supposed to be based on your personality."

The train came to a stop. Outside the window, Jack could see a wooden platform with no walls, populated by a dozen or so families. "Are you ready, sir?" the boy asked, letting Hedwig out that same window.

The nap had done him some good. Jack could almost… _almost_… say he was.

**----**

A/N: I'm alive! Yes! I survived my first week of college! …You know, except for the frazzled nerves, it was actually kind of fun. I love my calculus class, which is amazing because I hated it the first time around. Maybe it's because the doctorate-touting professor tells us to call her 'Liz'.

Between that, and finally being able to use a Jack-ism, I'm rather hyper. Could you tell? Next chapter, Hogwarts (_at last_), and possibly a meeting with a certain Headmaster, depending on how it flows.

29 August 2006


	7. Chapter VI

_Disclaimer and Warnings_: Parts of this chapter may seem a little awkward. This is what happens when you force muses.

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"_War is at best barbarism… Its glory is all moonshine… War is hell."  
_**-Gen. William T. Sherman

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**

There were only a few people who got off the train at Hogsmeade with them, mostly families with tired, cranky kids who made Jack's ears hurt with their wailing. Jack had to try hard not to feel self-conscious about the trunk floating along behind the trio as they made their way towards a person waiting by the stairs, who was easily the largest man he'd ever seen—maybe half again Teal'c's mass, who had held the previous record. His hair and beard were dark and wildly tangled, and bright, cheerful black eyes beamed out at them from half again Jack's height.

"Harry!" the giant exclaimed, stepping forward as they came near and lifting the kid into a rib-cracking bear hug. Jack didn't even bother trying to hide his sympathetic wince. "Blimey, lad, but it's good ter see yeh! I've been worried sick about yeh, after tha' mess with the Third Task…"

Harry's answering smile started out genuine enough, but by the end of the giant's statement it had frozen and gone brittle. "I'm fine, Hagrid," he said quietly as he was put back down. "I survived it, didn't I?"

There was a moment of awkward silence, until McGonagall cleared her throat. "Is the carriage prepared, Hagrid?"

Hagrid nodded his shaggy head. "Aye, Professor. It's waiting over by the path." He turned and began walking away, and their little group trailed along in his enormous wake. He led them down off the platform and over to said path, where Jack could just see the back of an old-fashioned, horse-drawn carriage sitting beneath a stand of ancient oak trees.

"Let me guess," he drawled _sotto voce_ to the boy next to him. "No electricity, and no cars, either."

Harry shook his head with a tiny smile. "I've only once seen a wizard use a car, and that had been magicked to fly," he answered just as quietly.

Nevertheless, though, their conversation had been overheard. "Would that be the same flying car you and Mr. Weasley crashed into the Whomping Willow, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall asked archly. "If so, I believe it is still running loose in the Forbidden Forest." Jack stared at her for a long moment, then turned and saw a slow flush creeping up Harry's cheeks.

Hagrid laughed, a deep, booming sound. "Aye, it is," he confirmed. "An' I dunno why, but Fang's got his heart set on chasing it down. Dunno what the daft bugger would do with it if'n he caught it, either."

"I don't think any dog knows that, Hagrid," Harry replied, though his face was still a bit pink and he wouldn't meet Jack's laughing eyes.

The American's step quickened, gaining a hint of jauntiness. Any place that had flying cars couldn't be _all_ bad, could it?

That thought lasted as long as it took him to round the closed carriage and see just what was pulling it. When Harry gasped in surprise as he caught sight of them, Jack reached back and pulled the boy protectively behind him, slowly backing away from the skeletal, winged, almost _reptilian_ horses in the traces, and more particularly their sharp, bloodstained teeth. "Hagrid, what are those things?" Harry whispered, his voice tight. "They weren't there last year…"

"It's all righ', lad. Thestrals have always pulled the Hogwarts carriages. Yeh just… couldn't ever see them before," Hagrid finished weakly. He and Professor McGonagall shared a sad glance, but neither of them seemed inclined to elaborate, and Harry didn't ask further. Jack reluctantly let his young charge go, giving the other two adults a hard look that informed them that, while Harry might not be willing to pry, the colonel was very willing and would be doing so very soon.

Jack kept between Harry and the obviously meat-eating 'thestrals' until the kid had climbed safely into the carriage. He helped McGonagall in next, earning the first approving glance she'd ever given him, and then got in himself. When Hagrid joined them after hefting Harry's trunk on top the carriage should have been even more cramped than the van earlier had been, but impossibly, there was plenty of room.

It wasn't so much the strangeness of everything that kept getting to Jack. It was how no one else ever seemed to notice that there was anything out of the ordinary.

"Put this on," McGonagall ordered brusquely, holding out her hand. When Jack reached out she dropped a pendant into his hand. "There are several muggle-aversion wards around Hogwarts grounds. This will keep them from affecting you."

He dangled the necklace in the air. The pendant was a carved Celtic knot, with a leather cord slipped through one of the loops, and looked perfectly ordinary to his eyes. "Pretty, I guess, but is it really necessary?" he asked.

The professor gave him a thin-lipped smile. "Unless you want to spend your entire time here wandering about the castle, dazed, confused, and convinced you're in the middle of some particularly unsafe ruins, yes."

Jack grimaced at her and slipped the cord over his head, tucking the pendant beneath his shirt. "Peachy," was his only comment, and the last word any of them spoke for the rest of the ride. Harry looked too uncomfortable surrounded by adults to start a conversation, and the adults themselves were nearly complete strangers and just as uncomfortable as the boy was.

The trip up to the castle was unnaturally smooth, based on what little the colonel knew about carriages like this one. It took maybe eight, ten minutes before the creaking of the wheels slowed, and finally stopped. After Hagrid, Jack made sure he was the first one out, as much to breathe in the fresh, uncluttered-by-issues air as to make sure nothing was waiting out there to get the kid. He looked around at his surroundings, and…

Stopped dead, his lips parted with delight as the muggle took in his very first view of their destination.

Hogwarts was a many-turreted behemoth that even in the darkness dominated the landscape for miles around. It had been built on top of a cliff overlooking a black-watered lake, which reflected the cheerful glow from the hundreds of windows placed at seeming-random intervals in the stone walls.

"You weren't kidding when you said the school was in a castle, were you?" he commented a little breathlessly as he felt Harry coming up behind him. And not just a normal castle—Hogwarts was the kind of castle that you only saw in fairy tales, a beautiful, improbable place that could only have been built with magic. Which made sense, really…

He heard the boy give a knowing chuckle. "She's really something, isn't she?" Harry said quietly, a genuine love in his voice.

Jack had to nod. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was something, all right.

Now he just needed to figure out _what_ she was.

-

McGonagall hustled them inside the castle almost at a run, leaving Hagrid behind with the carriage. She let them pause only once the large, wooden doors at the entrance crashed shut behind them, leaving Jack wondering just who she was hiding them from. "I will show you to your rooms so you may unpack, Mr. O'Neill. Then the Headmaster has asked that we all join him in the Great Hall for dinner. And you're in the Tower, Mr. Potter, as usual," she said, leading them along at a much slower pace, Harry's trunk still floating faithfully along behind them.

Next came a maze of staircases that Jack audibly groaned at as they came into view. "No damn elevators, either… Can't you people at least get flying carpets or something?" he grumbled, mostly to himself.

Harry snickered. "Those have been illegal in Britain since the seventies," he replied, grinning at Jack's double take. "Don't worry, sir, you get used to it. Watch out for this step, it's tricky." He hopped over a step halfway up the staircase, and Jack warily followed his example, fixing the step's location in his mind.

He'd already firmly decided that if a wizard warned him about something, he was damn well going to pay attention. His imagination could only begin to stretch far enough to consider what might happen to him if he didn't.

McGonagall never looked back. "I imagine you'll spend the next few days familiarizing yourself with the castle. You're to help him, Mr. Potter. The last thing we need is to lose your new… instructor for a week and have to send the house elves out after him." Harry murmured a quiet 'Yes, Professor' as Jack did his best not to gape indignantly. Never mind whatever the hell 'house elves' were; he'd never get lost for a week! It might take him a couple of days to get his bearings, yeah, but after that he wouldn't have a problem!

"Hogwarts can be hard to find your way in," Harry told him. "First years usually take a while to learn their way around, and even then it's a few months before you're really comfortable wandering around."

Jack's doubt must have shown on his face, because the kid grinned again, pausing and waiting for the older man on the next landing. "Hogwarts is pretty much alive, sir, and she likes to change. Not all the rooms are in the same places all the time. And the staircases… well, look up."

Jack did. For a moment he saw nothing out of the ordinary about the stairwell, save that the school's strange architecture extended to the random crisscross of stairs that went up at least six or seven stories. Then there was a low groaning sound, and one of the staircases near the fifth floor shivered and began to move away from its moorings. It swung ponderously over the gap, finally coming to rest at a landing almost forty-five degrees away from where it had started.

"They can be a real bugger, switching on you and making you late for class," Harry told him, tugging gently on his arm.

"Language, Mr. Potter," McGonagall called out, already a full staircase ahead of them, and the young wizard winced and hurried to catch up. Jack shook his head with another glance up the stairwell, and stepped it up. Letting his guide get out of his sight had already proven to be a mistake, back at the train station.

Still, though, what he wouldn't give for a map…

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A/N: Yes, I know, shorter than my usual. Better than nothing, though, which is what has been coming out for the last… month? Month and a half? I'm just glad I can still write. I was getting worried there… I think finals and that trip to Urgent Care to get IVs stuck in me might have helped. Still, though… Vanishes off to go sacrifice animals on various altars in gratitude for lessening the block.

Next chapter: Jack finds out what wizards consider a normal suite, and then a lovely repast and after-dinner conversation with the Headmaster…

Hugs to everyone who reviewed and is still waiting around for this chapter. You have the patience of saints.

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12 December 2006

(Happy Holidays, though hopefully I can get out something else before they actually hit)


	8. Chapter VII

**Warnings and Disclaimers:** Slightly heavier load of profanity than my usual. It's that kind of chapter.

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The suite of rooms the professor had led him to were… Jack's mind hovered between two adjectives, opulent and medieval. He stopped just inside the doorway (the doorway that was situated between two suits of armor, one of which had saluted him with its sword as they approached) and stared for a long moment.

The bed was enormous, easily able to sleep four people rather than just his one, and from each corner rose an intricately carved mahogany post. Those posts supported the midnight-blue velvet hangings; the play of colors drew attention to the silver embroidery that had to nearly double the weight of the cloth. All the other furniture in the room was of the same beautiful mahogany, and if any piece of it was less than a century old, the colonel would eat his pilot's wings.

"Are the rooms to your satisfaction?" McGonagall asked matter-of-factly, waiting outside the door. "It's been quite some time since Hogwarts hosted a guest, and I understand the house elves were quite delighted to clean out several for you to choose from."

"Ah… no, no, this one's good. This one's… great," Jack replied, finally managing to look away from the room and back at his hosts. Harry was covering a smile with his hand, but the American couldn't find it in himself to be offended.

McGonagall nodded. "We'll leave you to get settled in until dinner, then. Mr. Potter will come to take you to the Great Hall." She ushered the boy back into the hallway where his trunk was still waiting, and then, finally, Jack was alone.

His legs suddenly felt as though they couldn't hold him any longer, and he sagged down onto the edge of the bed. What the hell was he doing here? Yes, he'd been ordered to help, but he didn't know anything about magical warfare! He had no idea to deal with moving staircases, or how to defend against people who turned into animals, or what tactics to use when you had flying carpets!

Jack rested his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. He knew nothing about magic, and his superiors had to know that. They wouldn't expect him to teach Harry how to fight…

They wanted him to teach the kid how to kill. A kid who, he had discovered during their journey through the castle, would be turning fifteen in three weeks and change. _Fifteen_.

Harry wasn't a killer. Just the few hours the American had known him had been enough to drive that point home. He was too genuinely friendly, if wary, and too willing to help a complete stranger. And Jack really, really didn't want to be the one to change that. That was a point he was planning on making very… clear to just whoever was in charge of this farce. Around the same time that Jack was choking an explanation out of him.

And speaking of which… if he was going to be at all presentable for dinner, he had just enough time to splash some water on his face and try to look like he'd gotten a good night's sleep. With a sigh Jack pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the protest from his knees. The flight alone had been enough to have them complaining, but the van and train afterwards would have been torture if he hadn't had so much on his mind to distract him. Maybe there was some sort of magic spell that could fix them…

As he headed towards the bathroom, Jack smirked to himself. See? He was getting used to this magic stuff already. A pretty good adjustment to something so wild, in his opinion.

That thought lasted until he bent over the sink to splash water on his face and was loudly informed by the mirror that his hair looked like a bird's nest. Jack would later admit, though only to himself, that it was a good thing he was in a bathroom at the time. He'd come embarrassingly close to needing one.

-

There was a knock on his door not quite ten minutes later, and Jack rose from the bed he'd been sitting very still and quietly on to answer it. He'd thought it might be best to keep to himself as much as possible until he had a chance to corner Harry and demand to know what else in his rooms might start talking. Besides the moving portrait of the horses in pasture. The occasional whinny from their direction was actually kind of nice to listen to.

Harry had obviously gone with the same water-splashing plan that Jack had, since there were still droplets clinging to his bangs. The weight pulled his hair aside enough that the strangely-shaped scar on his forehead was in plain view. Jack wanted to know the story behind that scar. In his experience, the only thing that could leave lines as straight and narrow as that, not to mention in the shape of a bolt of lightning, was a knife in the hands of a sadist. The kid didn't come across as a victim, though, so he doubted the explanation was as simple as that.

"Are you ready, sir?" Broken out of his thoughts, Jack nodded and followed him out the door.

The Great Hall was guarded by two twenty-foot-tall solid oak doors, bound at the top and bottom by bands of silver. Symbols had been etched into the silver, but he couldn't make heads or tails of them before Harry lightly touched a door and it swung open as though it were on hydraulics. The room beyond was even larger than the hall they were in, and held five tables, one parallel to the rest on the far side and raised up on a dais. A single figure he recognized as McGonagall was its only occupant.

"No one else coming?" he asked as he approached the schoolmarm, Harry trailing along behind him.

McGonagall gave him a nod in greeting. "Headmaster Dumbledore will be joining us shortly. He had a few matters to clear up first regarding the next school year."

Jack paused, halfway through the act of sitting down. "The next school year? You mean to tell me you people are heading into a war and you're still going to be running things out of a working school?"

McGonagall frowned. "I assure you, Mr. O'Neill-"

"Colonel," Jack interrupted, finally fed up with the liberty being taken by someone who was steadily losing respect in his eyes. "It's Colonel O'Neill."

The professor's frown deepened. "Hogwarts School is the safest place in Britain, _Colonel_. The students will be perfectly safe here."

The quiet snort drew the regard of both adults onto Harry, who flushed at the sudden attention. "And what would that mean, Mr. Potter?"

"Nothing, Professor." When the stares didn't lessen, the kid ducked his head in embarrassment. "It's just… well, maybe it's just me, but… Quirrell. The basilisk. Dementors. The fake Moody and the Triwizard Tournament…"

McGonagall coughed discreetly into her hand, hints of color high in her cheeks. "Yes. Quite," she acknowledged, glancing at Jack and away again. "Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain, unless you happen to be Mr. Potter."

This did not reassure Jack. It didn't even come close. In fact, it was making him feel even pissier than he had already been, and he thought it might get even worse later when he sat Harry down and dragged the stories behind everything the boy had just mentioned out of him.

"So, this Dumbles guy is the one in charge?" the colonel asked, changing the subject abruptly.

It might have been his imagination that McGonagall looked relieved. "Albus is a very well-respected member of our community, and he has experience in these matters. He is well-known for having stopped the rise of the Dark Lord Grindewald, back in the 40s."

"Yeah? So why isn't he taking care of this one, then?" The words were out before Jack could censor his mouth- assuming he would have censored it, anyway.

"I'm afraid that subject, Colonel O'Neill, is not a suitable one for the dinner table." Jack twisted in his seat in surprise to see an old man standing behind them, and had to wonder how they'd all missed his entrance- especially given the bright blue-and-fuchsia striped robes he wore. A long white beard was tucked into a simple leather belt, and two gentle blue eyes regarded him steadily as the American stared back.

"If you'd care to join me in my office after our meal, however, I would be quite pleased to explain matters," the elderly wizard continued, sweeping around the table to take a seat on Harry's other side. He clapped his hands and in the blink of an eye the table was covered in food.

Firmly controlling his start of surprise, Jack rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. Couldn't these wizards do anything the normal way?

Oh, look. Invisible roof. Or something.

-

The office Dumbledore escorted him into was the dream office of either a six-year-old or a schizophrenic. The room itself was large, with enormous windows looking out into the night, but any sense of spaciousness was destroyed by the sheer clutter it was occupied by. Portraits of older men and a few women lined the walls, all of whom seemed to be lightly snoring, and a beautiful monstrosity of a mahogany desk reigned from the middle of the floor. Jack took all of this in with a brief glance, before the other objects scattered around caught his attention.

An elaborate sword in a glass case caught his eye first; its hilt was gold and spangled with large rubies, but its blade was marred with odd black stains. A four-foot-tall perch made of gold stood just behind the desk, currently untenanted, and Jack wondered whether Dumbledore kept an owl like Harry did. There were a few dozen strange silver instruments scattered about, a few with parts that twirled or swung. As he watched a propeller-like thing began to spin, and a metronome wound down.

Jack found himself wishing his office back in the mountain was a little like this. He might be willing to spend more time in it doing paperwork if it was. Except then he might get even less paperwork actually done…

"I'm sure you have many questions for me, Colonel," Dumbledore said quietly, seating himself behind the desk and beckoning the other man towards one of the chairs in front of it. "I don't know precisely what General Blake has told you, but I know he is not in possession of all of the details. Ask, and I will answer what I may."

Jack nodded slowly. "All right." The anger that had been simmering ever since the mock-briefing in the van, only fed and abetted by the events with Kinsey and the SGC, threatened to bubble over. He pushed it down as far as he could, promising the emotions they could have full rein once he'd gotten some answers. "Why Harry? Why a fucking kid?"

Okay, so maybe the anger was getting a little free rein. Dumbles could deal with it or not, Jack didn't really care.

The Headmaster sighed and leaned back in his chair, suddenly looking not just old, but ancient. "And of course, you must first ask the hardest question of all." He stared off into space for a minute, sending a flash of impatience through Jack, but quickly came back to himself. "To put this succinctly, there is a prophecy. I will not tell you its precise contents, but the general gist is that young Harry is the only one who is able to defeat Voldemort."

Jack sat frozen in his chair for a long moment, caught staring at the wizard. He… that was… "Are you fucking _out of your mind_?" he demanded, surging to his feet. "That's the most ridiculous fucking thing I've ever heard! You're going to force a fourteen-year-old boy to kill someone because some fortuneteller somewhere mumbled some fancy words and said it would happen? You bastards can go-"

"Colonel O'Neill!" Dumbledore thundered, and Jack's tirade halted in his surprise. "I appreciate your feelings on Harry's behalf, but we have no choice!" he continued in a more subdued tone. "Prophecies, true prophecies, inevitably come true, regardless of all attempts to make it otherwise. And even if it were not so, Harry would still need you, and all the help you could give him."

"…What do you mean?" Jack asked warily, slowly sitting down again. For a brief flash of time the old man in front of him had, to put a not-too-fine point on it, scared the shit out of him. His blue eyes had seemed to glow, though not in a snaky way, and there had been shadows behind him…

But Dumbledore looked only human now, old and tired and not just a bit haggard. "In his short life, Harry has faced Voldemort not just once, but four times, and thwarted him each time. Even were they not fated to clash, the Dark Lord would not let that go unpunished. He will come after Harry again, and if Harry cannot face him, he will die."

Jack stared down at his clenched fists, trembling with the need to hurt something or someone. "…Fuck."

Dumbledore chuckled, a sound that had nothing of mirth in it. "Indeed, Colonel O'Neill. Indeed."

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A/N: I'd expected the confrontation between Jack and Dumbledore (only the first of its kind, not the last) would be the hardest to write, but it's taken less than half an hour in total. Instead, it was Jack's introspective scene in the beginning that took a year.

Enjoy. I need to get back to work now before my boss sneaks up behind me and asks me what I'm doing… again…

We're stocking up on Halloween candy already. Once and future reviewers each get a handful…

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9 October 2007


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